Desperate Cargo

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The crewman glanced at her, unsure how to take the remark. He had the sense to stay silent, concentrating on his wounds.

Bolan drew the woman aside, looking over her shoulder so he could keep the wounded Brit in sight. “What do I call you?”

“Lucky?” She reached out to touch his arm, a simple gesture that expressed her feelings. “My mother was always telling me my humor would get me into trouble. My name is Majira.”

“Where did they pick you all from?”

“Pristina. Off the streets. My own fault for walking home alone after dark. But what was I supposed to do? Never go out? Lose my job? I had heard about the traffickers. How they grab people and send them abroad. I never imagined I would be one of their victims. Nor would any of the others.” She took a breath, her voice breaking slightly. “It is the children who would suffer worst. We all understand what would happen to them. Sold to…to soulless monsters who would abuse them.”

“Not his time, Majira.”

“You are American. Why are you doing this?”

“Long story. Let’s say I’m trying to shut this group down.”

“Are you a policeman? One of the good mans?”

Bolan nodded. “I’ll go with that. The name is Cooper, by the way.”

“So, Cooper, tell me, what happens now?”

Bolan looked at the huddled figures. He turned, checking out the darkened buildings at the landward end of the jetty.

“Take everyone to those buildings. At least you’ll have shelter while I organize things. Do it now, Majira.”

She nodded, turned quickly and spoke to the group. Her voice persuaded them to follow her. Bolan watched the uneven line moving away, the older women comforting the children. He waited until they had vanished inside one of the buildings before turning his attention to his captive.

“What’s bloody well going on?” the Brit asked.

“I feel more comfortable without witnesses,” Bolan said, standing over the downed man and staring at him.

The Brit watched him, short-lived defiance showing through his pain. He wasn’t sure how to perceive the tall, black-clad American. One thing he did know. The man was serious. The way he had taken down the crew had been an eye-opener. Once he had his opening he had taken out the opposition with ruthless efficiency. Being the sole survivor might not turn out to be the greatest blessing.

“What?” the Brit asked. “Christ, if you’re going to kill me get on with it. Standing there saying nothing. It’s creepy.” His remark was said more out of bravado than anything else. In truth he was scared.

“Tell me about the two Americans you killed.”

“Now you wait a minute. I had nothing to do with that. It was down to Willi Bickell and the blokes who run things. No shit, mate, they did it. I’m just hired help.”

Loyalty never flew the coop so fast, Bolan thought.

“Chambers is the head man around here?”

A frantic nod. The Brit looked eager to talk, hopeful it would go toward extending his life span. The man was no different to anyone else. His first thoughts were of his own survival.

Bolan made a show of ejecting the pistol’s magazine and snapping in a fresh one. He dropped the ejected mag into his pocket, moving round the prone man on the ground.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Bolan glanced at the man. “I can’t afford loose ends.”

“You can’t. You people don’t go round executing people.”

“People like me?” Bolan said.

“You’re a cop. And bloody cops don’t—”

“I think we need to clear something up. I never said I was a cop. I don’t have a rule book.”

“Look, fuck this game. You can’t just shoot me like this.”

“No?”

“Can we deal?” the man pleaded.

“Maybe you don’t have anything I want.”

“Try me. But we make a deal first or I don’t say a thing.”

“My word good enough?”

“I have to trust you? Big risk for me.”

“You’re still alive.”

The Brit considered his situation. He wasn’t going to get a written guarantee, and he was in no shape to play hard to get.

“So what do you need to know?”

“Tell me about van Ryden?”

“He fixes things. Has connections here. Arranges for people to look the other way so we can get cargo in and out. He works with the top level in the U.K., as well. Yeah, well, Chambers does the hiring and firing here and at the U.K. base, but Hugo Canfield is the real man in charge. Chambers is second fiddle, really. He likes to throw his weight about. Canfield is the man. But you wouldn’t want to tangle with him. He’s too big. Can’t be interfered with. The man has a cop in his pocket. An Interpol agent. Probably even customs officers. Hell, maybe even higher than that. He runs in serious circles. No shit, mate, Canfield is bad news. I’d sooner sit naked in a crate of fuckin’ rattlesnakes than cross Canfield.”

“What about a database? Names and locations?”

“Even if I told you, there isn’t anything you can do.”

“So what have you got to lose?”

“Only my balls. If they find out I gave them up what they did to your undercover men will be like a slap on the wrist.”

“One way or another you’re going to tell me. I can walk away and let you bleed to death, or end it with a bullet behind the ear. Believe me when I say I don’t give a damn one way or another. It’s your choice. Your buddies took the hard way. That can be arranged for you.”

“What about protection? I’ve cooperated. You can get me protection.”

Bolan took out his cell phone.

“I can make the call from right here if you give me what I need.”

“I did hear van Ryden has a database on his computer. It’s supposed to have details on everyone who works for Venturer. Means they can keep tabs on us all. Hold on to all our unsavory little secrets. Keeps it at his home outside the city. Place is watched over by armed security. Only other thing I can tell you about is the farm they use to house people while trade is done. I can give you a location for both places.”

Bolan made his call minutes later. When Brognola came on Bolan briefed him on the status of the mission.

“If the task force wasn’t wrapped up in protocols and red tape, maybe they could have gotten further,” Brognola grumbled. “So tell me again about these people you found.”

“Women and children. One I spoke to said she was snatched in Pristina so I’m guessing this group came from that area. Off-loaded from a container ship. I arrived in time to prevent them being moved off the dock and sent to God knows where. Hal, do you still have people on the ground hereabouts?”

“Part of the task force is cooling their heels in Amsterdam. You need their help?”

“The women and kids need looking after. Somewhere they’ll be secure until a decision can be made about them. I also have a survivor from the crew who were going to ship them out. He’s wounded. Needs medical assistance and protection. Your task force might be able to get more info out of him.”

“I expect you’ve already got what you need?”

“We exchanged mutual considerations.”

“I’m sure. Striker, let me talk to our people out there. I’ll come back to you ASAP.”

Bolan spent time collecting weapons from the dead crewmen. He placed his small arsenal just inside the open container. He kept one of the MP-5s and extra magazines for his own use. He checked out the cab of the big tractor-trailer unit and located a first-aid box under the passenger seat. Using the contents he bound up the Brit’s legs, applying pressure pads to slow any further blood loss.

“First you shoot me, now you bandage me up. What next? A mug of hot sweet tea?”

“What do you think?”

“Sounds like I’m a dead man either way.”

“Redemption can go a long way to keeping you alive.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“You gave me what I needed. So I’ll keep my word. You’ll be taken into protective custody.”

“Don’t I have a say about all this?”

The hardness that etched itself across the big American’s face told the man he had said the wrong thing. The blue eyes were suddenly like chips of ice. He could almost feel the chill emanating from them.

“I’d be justified to shoot you right now after what I’ve seen tonight. You people are crawling in the gutter. You sleep well at night? Seeing those young kids and knowing the life you’re sending them to? Have you looked at pictures showing how those perverts treat them?”

“Look, I just work on this part of the business. Collection and distribution. Never seen where they go.”

“That clear your conscience?”

“Mate, I’ve been struggling for years to do that. Probably too late for me. I’m just trying to earn a living. Bloody hell, aren’t we all?”

Bolan didn’t answer. He had all too often heard the excuses, the self-justification, the criminal element came up with to whitewash their activities. He didn’t believe a word of it. He dismissed it as he always did, because if he digested it and analyzed the pathetic reasons he might have turned his gun on them out of sheer disgust.

Reasoning platitudes were the get-out clauses from the mouths of criminals through the decades. From mass murderers to raving dictators who slaughtered thousands, there was always an excuse. A smiling word that was supposed to wash away the bloodlust and the wanton elimination of entire cultures. The perpetrators never considered they had done anything wrong. It was always the rest of the world that was out of step. That did not understand why a particular horror had been committed. Some odd quirk lodged deep in the homicidal, deranged minds of the despots allowed them to excuse away what they had done. If they explained it they self-purged their conscience. They became heroes instead of maniacal villains. And in many instances they often convinced others to see the justification.

In Mack Bolan’s eyes a bloody-handed butcher was just that. There was no redemption. No vainglorious explanation that wiped away the needless deaths of men, women and children. Evil was evil. It would never be reconciled as far as he was concerned. It was why the Executioner existed. Why he stood against the monsters.

Someone had to.

Because if he didn’t, who would?

5

Hugo Canfield was having lunch at his London club when the maître d’brought him the telephone. He plugged it into one of the sockets, then placed the instrument on the table for Canfield.

“The caller said it was quite urgent, Mr. Canfield.”

Canfield nodded. “Thank you, Enright.” He waited until the man had withdrawn before picking up the receiver.

“Canfield.”

“This is van Ryden. Is it convenient?”

Canfield allowed himself a slight smile. The club dining room was exceptionally quiet. Only two other diners were seated together on the far side of the opulent room. All Canfield could hear was the low murmur of their voices and the click of knives and forks as they ate.

“It will cease to be if my roast beef gets cold.”

“There has been a problem with the latest cargo due for delivery. I thought you should know.”

“Explain ‘problem,’ Ludwig.”

There was a slight pause before van Ryden spoke. “The problem occurred at the delivery location and the cargo was lost.”

“I’ll be going back to my office after lunch. Use the jet. I want you in London before the end of the day.”

“Of course, Hugo.”

Canfield ended the call. He beckoned for Enright to remove the phone, then returned to his meal. He found his appetite a little soured at the news. Hugo Canfield did not enjoy being told that one of his shipments had been lost. He knew the details of the particular cargo that had been expected in Rotterdam. He had invested time and money, as he always did, and if it had been lost, then that meant he was going to be down a considerable sum. Not only that but he was going to have to disappoint important clients. They would not be pleased, which meant Canfield would not be pleased. Client satisfaction was something he prided himself on. It was one of the reasons his organization was the best. He allowed no slackening in standards. He would not tolerate failure.

He smiled suddenly at the thought of van Ryden sitting in the comfort of the Learjet as it crossed from Rotterdam to London. The man would not enjoy the flight. His churning stomach would not be put down to air sickness. He would be worrying. He would not realize that Canfield was not about to lay the blame on him. The lawyer was responsible for the legal part of the operation and logistics. He also dealt with finance. He was not a field operative.